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I'm Beautiful, Baby
This is a post found on the subreddit /r/NoSleep, made by TheMirrorMaker. It was originally titled "Recently, I had to hurt my wife in response to her hurting herself." Here is the original read. I told my wife every day, “You’re beautiful, you look amazing, you’re breathtaking,” but she never believed me. There wasn’t anything I could do to remedy her sense of ugliness besides try again and again to remind her how attractive she really was. This wasn’t a new thing, she’d always been conscious about her looks, but the severity of her comments about herself seemed to worsen out of nowhere. “I’m fucking hideous,” she’d say to me, “why are you even with me? The god damn dirt under your shoes is more appealing than I am.” Whatever I’d tell her in whatever way I could think of wouldn’t get through to her. I don’t know what happened to make her so self-loathing, but I know I hated seeing her like that. For her to see herself in a mirror was the worst thing of all. She’d have to see the, “horrid monster,” looking back at her. I’ll still remember those days where we talked about taking all the mirrors in the house down; it’s a miracle we didn’t. She had a way to cope, to give herself a chance to look at her reflection and not feel completely disgusted. Every day in the morning, she’d rush into the bathroom and put her make-up on. You’d think she was trying to cover up the imperfections on her face, but I doubted it. She was trying to look like a different person, trying to remove the old her. It must have been some symbolic suicide. Whatever the reason, nothing would stop her from putting that make-up on. Most of it was applied to her eye-lids; she’d tell me constantly how she couldn’t stand how drooped they were. I never saw it, I loved her eyes; they attracted me to her when we first met. Unfortunately, she never considered much of what I thought. Instead of feeling comforted by my words of encouragement, she reacted with rage. “Don’t lie to me! I’m not fucking stupid, I know how I look!” It was useless. Eventually I sort of stopped trying. She’d stick herself in the bathroom for hours, trying to get her make-up just right, crippling into tears and screams whenever she’d fail. But I knew she’d never quite get it, her self-hatred wouldn’t allow her to think she looked even remotely okay. I don’t think we talked for a while during that time. She’d run around in hysteria about her appearance, throwing things around and occasionally falling to the floor in emotional defeat. My comments that she was beautiful and that everything would be alright stopped happening; I must have stopped believing them myself. Then that Wednesday evening happened. She was in the bathroom like usual, trying to get her make-up to match some super model, or at least someone who wasn’t her. I simply sat in the living room trying to ignore it; the tv was on, it was some news show. However, eventually my wife stormed into the room completely lost in a panic. “I can’t take it anymore!” She screamed, “My god, my horrible fucking eyes! My god!” She went right passed me into the kitchen and forced several of the cabinets open. Utensils smashed onto the ground so loudly that I broke myself free from my own dismissal of her insanity. “Honey?” I questioned, “Are you okay? Honey?” I can’t remember if she responded or what she said if she did, but I remember hearing that metal zing from the kitchen. When I went to check up on her, the scissors were just reaching her eyes. She pulled her eye-lid out and placed the scissors around it, clutching her fingers together to slit the first lid off. The blade filled with tears and blood that crept down her fingers. I’m so tempted to say that her pain must have been excruciating, but I don’t think it was. She’d become so numb that I doubt she felt a thing. Maybe I’d become numb too. I didn’t say anything to try to stop her, never even considered it. Some part of my mind must have told me this would happen; not this exact thing, but something horrible. With me watching, whether she knew it or not I can’t be sure, she tossed the first eyelid on the ground and reached for the other. There was more blood the second time. Maybe she pierced a thicker vein or something but I swear half of her face became drenched in red. Through it all, I never interfered. All I could do is stand there and watch. Eventually, she watched me too. She slowly turned her head to look at me with those dead eyes and smiled. “I’m beautiful baby. I’m beautiful. Don’t you think so?” I said nothing. I just stared at her. The next few days were hard. I’d try to ignore her but she’d always creep through the house to find me; her eyes were red as a devil. “I’m beautiful baby.” She’d always say, “don’t you think so?” I never said anything, I couldn’t, but I know why she’d suddenly found such beauty in herself. She died. Maybe not literally but whatever soul may have twisted in her body was no longer there. What remained was this terrible witch of a woman, staring at me with her bloodshot eyes and a crooked smile. I couldn’t take it, her god-awful gaze dug into my sleep. My dreams of escaping from her pessimism mutated into nightmares where her very being absorbed me. My hatred of her began to grow and challenge her hatred of herself. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful baby? Don’t you think so?” We never picked them up, her eyelids, still soaking in that bloody mess on the kitchen floor. I told myself that if they’d become part of her again, maybe I’d get some peace. Maybe. That’s all I needed. The possibility of some peace. One day as she dragged her living corpse into the bathroom, I patiently waited by the kitchen entrance. “Wait for it,” I thought, “wait for it”. When her attention was fully in the mirror, I moved. I grabbed the eyelids. I grabbed a stapler. And I ran into the bathroom and grabbed her. The force of me rushing in there crippled her balance, tossing her to the floor. She couldn’t fight me off, as wildly as she tried; I was stronger than her. Against her will, I pressed her first eyelid back against her face and hit the staple against her head. I’ll never forget those cries, but she needed to cry. That’s a way for emotional hurt to leave the body, right? I held the second eyelid to her face and pierced a staple into that one too. My adrenaline must have disorientated me horribly because when I backed away to see what I’d done, I realized the second lid was crooked. That couldn’t do, Jesus Christ it could never do. Getting that lid back off only took a tug or two, good tugs though, the staple was really deep in there. Eventually I got it off and my wife jolted a bit. What was going through her mind, what was she thinking? I don’t know. The lid felt so… wet. Eyelashes brushed off as I rolled it between my thumb and middle finger. I couldn’t stop here, I was so close to fixing my wife’s haunting gaze. Like before, I pressed it back against her eye and pressed the stapler into it, and just like before her body cringed and shook. This time, the staple sank into the eye itself, but the lid looked perfect. No crookedness was visible whatsoever. “Babe… we’re done.” I said. She didn’t respond. I knew her shock and suffering would be replaced with rage towards me. I didn’t really expect us to ever speak again after that and so far I’ve been right. It’s been a few weeks since this has all happened and she hasn’t even greeted me. I walk past the bathroom she’s in a couple times a day and ask if she’s alright but she never answers. My wife, that poor woman, what happened to her. Is she just gonna lay there forever being upset? I even told her she was beautiful, I forced myself to mean it. She is. She’s so gorgeous now. I think I truly love her again. What do I do? What can I do? This is where the subreddit cut off. Category:Mental Illness Category:Dismemberment